


Lethe

by muffin_song



Category: Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Forgiveness, Moving On
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:21:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21842107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muffin_song/pseuds/muffin_song
Summary: Forgiving oneself is the hardest of all.
Relationships: Eurydice/Orpheus (Hadestown)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Lethe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SingARoundelay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingARoundelay/gifts).



_ It's been a while, hasn't it Orpheus? _

_ If you looked up you might see that spring has returned to the world of the mortals. This past winter was like many and took its share of the living. But I hear these days it ends in time for a few spring flowers. Men to remember how to hope. _

_ That's your doing, you know. _

_ I wish you of all people could see it. You're far from the flawless hero described in stories, Orpheus, but the world changed because of you and you deserve to see that. I know that instead you're off in a world of your own making. _

_ I’ve heard that in the land of men, the songbirds peck for food. The thawing ground reveals its secrets. A girl shyly asks a boy if he would like to dance. Makes you think back, doesn’t it? _

_ You don't have to do this again. But you've always been stubborn. _

_ Very well, I guess we’re doing this. Drink up, Orpheus. _

* * *

Orpheus brings his cupped hands to his face.

Water trickles down his lips and Orpheus is a young man again. The pain in his back is gone, as is the creaking of the disheveled machinery of his body. Breath rushes through his lungs, unhindered by age. 

The first sounds he hears are the clamor of dishes and silverware against plates. “Order up!” calls one of the cafe staff, who looks to Orpheus expectantly.

This is Mr. Hermes’ cafe, complete with its mismatched china and dog-eared posters covering every inch of the walls. Orpheus remembers seeing the building down with his own eyes. Now it’s filled with the smell of fresh pastry and the clang of coffee cups, not a stone worse for the wear.

The rush of memories, now present and physical, threaten to overwhelm him. There was a time when he had a life here. Maybe not much of one by most standards, barely making enough wage to eat and scribbling down fragments of atonal songs by candlelight. But in the blazing heat of that summer, the world was so bright, and now he's here again.

And the slight, dark-haired girl in front of him…

This isn't the Eurydice from Hadestown, covered in soot, grime, despair. Nor the one of vanishing mist who haunts his nightmares. 

This Eurydice still wears her old, much beloved coat like armor. Orpheus watches her take stock of all the exits in the room (this is his girl, all right).

Her stance is on guard, as if she's waiting for the slightest provocation to break into a run. The first time he saw her, in that other lifetime, Orpheus was struck by how much life this small, weary girl had coiled up inside of her. It reminded him of the things he was always bursting to say but could never quite form into words.

The Eurydice standing in front of Orpheus is once more made of fire, tiny and bright. The weight of the years drops from Orpheus's shoulders like an old coat, and Orpheus is once drawn like a moth.

In a world without winter, he thinks, what could we have done together, my love?

Next to him, Mr. Hermes (oh Orpheus has missed his old friend) says something that goes in one ear and out the other.

"Come home with me," Orpheus says to Eurydice. It's both a whisper and a prayer.

* * *

_ Memories are a funny thing. They're a constant knife in your side, but they’re also the flame that keeps you warm in the cold. And when we’re utterly alone, they can be our most cherished companion.  _

_ It's good to remember, Orpheus. So many who come to the shores of the River Lethe want to erase everything before they cross to the other side. And that’s one way to do it, I suppose. _

_ It might be a mercy if you drank from the Lethe’s waters completely. Enough to forget everything. For some, that’s the only way they can get across. But you’re a poet, Orpheus. And poets might forget the details of the story, but they never completely forget a good tale. _

_ And so you keep drinking just enough to forget how you get to this story’s end, no matter how many times you change the roads along the way. _

* * *

It’s strange to be an interloper in your own past. Orpheus is both lurking behind the curtains and an actor on this stage.

This time around, Orpheus has only just met Eurydice. She smirks more than she smiles, and her hands are red from the odd jobs she gets washing dishes and laundry under scalding hot water.

That doesn’t change the fact that she can get to him more than anyone, that she can disarm him just as easily with a glance as a smile.

This Eurydice is still cautious. And why wouldn’t she be? Orpheus's girl did not make it through the cold for so long by showing any weakness. 

(Can a man be nervous wooing the woman he distantly knows he’ll become the love of his life?)

Orpheus is self-assured. He’s scared to death. But even when he stumbles over what to say, Eurydice's jabs are sharp, but her eyes are kind.

When he once again produces a red flower from the air itself, Eurydice pauses and really looks at him for the first time. He holds the flower out to her with a trembling hand. Eurydice inhales once, and takes it. Her hand brushes lightly against Orpheus's own.

Later that night, Orpheus promises himself he’ll do everything right this time. 

* * *

_ Have you ever been a weaver, Orpheus? I will confess I never took it up myself. You know I've never been one for sitting still. _

_ From what mortals tell me, if you cut into the middle strands, the entire piece comes apart. You're free to tie a new thread and remake the tapestry. _

_ The Fates don't work adhere to that. Oh yes, you can unwind the tapestry back into spools of thread, back into coarse wool. But when the Fates set the course of mortal lives on their look, it doesn't matter what thread you use. The end still comes out the same. _

_ You don't have to do this again. _

* * *

If Orpheus knows the future, he can prepare for it. He knows that Mr. Hades will be arriving early long before he hears the first shriek of the train whistle.

Orpheus won’t make the same mistakes this time. Eurydice won’t face the winter alone. 

He works extra shifts bussing tables at the cafe and carefully sets their money aside. When he walks the roads home at night, he can hear tuneless, tinny songs coming from the music halls. (It's not really the sound or the style he hates as much as the utter lack of any soul). He makes a few extra coins selling scratchy ditties to the music hall proprietors, even if they threaten to make his ears bleed.

When he returns home that evening, his lover is dozing in their cot, her hair disheveled. Orpheus smiles.

"You're up late," Eurydice mumbles in her semi-conscious state.

"The tales of drunken wenches aren't going to write themselves."

Eurydice opens her eyes to fix him with a look. "You know, my artiste, the gods you like singing about so much are also known to have their fill of Bacchus's wine." 

"I know, but that's different. This just...doesn't feel…" He reaches for the word, but finds only air. "Right."

Eurydice is the toughest person he knows. (Orpheus once saw her take down a would-be thief with a bag of potato scraps. The man was twice her size. Eurydice fought like a banshee). Orpheus knows she could slice him in two with a look. Maybe not with strength (potato thieves notwithstanding), but because she’s the only one who can see through muddled but vivid colors he's so bad at putting into words. She could laugh like everyone else, and destroy him in the process.

Instead, she sits up, and takes his hand. She runs a finger over the calluses from hours upon hours of playing the lyre. Orpheus can see the still-burning embers of a dream in her eyes. “So tell me what would feel right.”

* * *

_ Why do they tell sad stories again and again, despite knowing how it will end? _

_ I used to hate it. I used to hate it so much. _

_ But mortals need to hope like they need to breathe. Maybe now more than ever, I think I understand why _

_ What you're doing to yourself, though? It's not so much hope as slowly grinding your heart to dust. _

* * *

Mr. Hades finally arrives on a day dripping with summer heat. Orpheus wonders if the air itself will freeze with the gods' departure.

Orpheus holds Eurydice close against his chest. “We have enough,” he reassures her. “Ms. Persephone will be back in no time at all, you’ll see.” 

Eurydice squeezes his hand. The smile on her lips doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m sure she will.” 

Orpheus can’t help but notice how her eyes linger to the passengers aboard the train, and to the gilded interiors within the train to Hadestown.

* * *

At first, it seems like Orpheus’s plan working. A few weeks later Mr. Hermes’ cafe closes for the season, and a week after that they see their friend off at the station.

Hermes grips Orpheus in a tight hug. "Are you sure about this?" His gaze pierces through Orpheus, and for the first time he wonders if anyone else can sense that he's a visitor in this young man's body. But while Hermes's eyes are shrewd, they are also filled with the same compassion Orpheus has always known with his mentor.

It would be so easy to say no, Orpheus wasn't sure at all. Maybe going with Hermes would mean safe passage. But he was a god and they were mortal. Hermes could easily weather storms that would be their end.

Instead, Orpheus pulls himself from the embrace. "I'm sure."

They have money saved. Each day they portion out just enough for food and firewood.

The winter days march on without stop. Their small savings only goes so far.

“You never play the lyre anymore, love.” Eurydice says one night as they lie in bed.

Orpheus smiles sadly. "Didn't you always say that songs don't make bellies full?"

Eurydice trails a finger along his arm. "Maybe, but they're not the only part of us that hungers." He can't see her blush in the dark, but he imagines it all the same. Orpheus lets out a snort in spite of himself. "I mean-"

And then they're both laughing harder than they have in weeks. The act itself feels so good Orpheus remembers once again that they’re alive and they’re here with each other. Maybe spring is just around the corner.

Afterwards, Orpheus holds Eurydice tight, as if maybe together they can fend off the cold.

* * *

_ This is the part that’s important to hold onto. This is the part that’s important to take with you.  _

_ You could end it here, Orpheus. _

_ I wish you would let things end here. _

* * *

The winter is brutal and doesn’t end.

Every day cloud-covered sun rises, and they depart their small cottage to find work. Most days they return empty handed. “We’ll get through this,” Eurydice reassures him. Orpheus wonders if she's trying to convince him, or herself.

They return home one evening to find the door to their little cottage ajar. Something forms in the pit of Orpheus’s stomach. Eurydice, always quick on her feet, quickly pushes past.

The bedding is turned over, every drawer in their small kitchen has been pulled out. Whoever did this was damningly thorough. Gone are their carefully rationed stores of potato and dried meat. And when Orpheus looks under the floorboard for their pouch of coin, he knows in the pit of his stomach what to expect.

Orpheus is struck dumb by the sight before them. His hands are shaking, but he can't make himself move.

Eurydice is the one to gather up the scraps of what’s left, and who begins to clean up the mess. 

Orpheus can only stand there in dumbfounded shock. Outside, he thinks he hears the whistle of Mr. Hades’ train heading further and further under the ground.

* * *

For the first time, Orpheus joins the line for the jobs he wouldn’t take before. Of course Mr. Hades’ mines are way down underground, but there are other sites that are easier for mortal men to reach. At least those who are willing to forget about permits and safety regulations, or being on the right side of the law. Mines where the men and women who do return in the morning come back with hands stained black by soot, and breath tarnished by coal. 

When Orpheus returns the first night, Eurydice is shaking with fury. His songbird is small in stature, but that makes her no less an inferno. “They shoot people who are found working those jobs,” she spits out, each word like a bullet. “You could have been killed, Orpheus, and I wouldn’t even have known where your body was buried.”

And it would be one less mouth to feed, Orpheus thinks, and hates himself for it. Instead he tries to remember a man from a lifetime ago. “But I wasn’t.”

He shows her the meager coin clutched in his hand. “I’ll start a fire, you go to the market and see what we can buy with this.”

Eurydice takes the small pile of silver from his hands. She counts it twice, but instead of immediately starting the clockwork of her mind on how to stretch the small amount, she takes his other hand in his own. He sees her lips move in a count of three. She releases an exhale, fury making way to both sadness and relief. 

“The market will be open for an hour yet.” She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, the anger is replaced by grief at what could have been. “Play me a song?”

Orpheus shakes his head. The gleam in Eurydice's eyes loses a small bit of its light. So Orpheus stands straighter, and reluctantly walks to the corner where his lyre has grown dusty. It’s been so, so long. He sets it into position, and Eurydice’s hands settle over his.

“Which song should I play?” he asks.

Eurydice’s lips curl upwards. “What about the one with the flower girl who becomes the queen of the underworld? You were working on that one, right?”

It’s been the last thing on Orpheus’s mind. “It wouldn’t matter even if I did finish it,” he says wistfully. 

Eurydice brings their hands together. “Weren’t you going to sing the world back into tune?” she tries. The faint hope in her eyes is painful to look at. Not just because this world-weary girl believes he can do it. But because he’s going to do it, and still lose what matters most.

“It wouldn’t bring the spring back,” he says instead. It wouldn’t save you, he adds silently. 

You don’t know that yet, he insists silently. Not this time.

Eurydice runs her fingers over his palm. “Don’t you want to try?” Her smile is casual, but behind it there’s fierce desperation. Orpheus sometimes forgets he’s not the only one who is trying beyond hope to survive. Or maybe, gods forbid, even live.

Sometimes hope is the sharpest dagger of all.

* * *

“We could take the train to Hadestown, join up with Mr. Hades,” Eurydice mentions casually one night after they’ve finished their thin soup. 

Orpheus’s heart lurches to a stop. “No, no, no.” He takes two strides and crosses the length of their small dwelling to her. 

“At least we wouldn’t be hungry,” Eurydice tells him matter of fact. Then she meets his eyes. “What?”

“Promise me you’ll never go to Hadestown,” Orpheus pleads. “No one comes back from there.”

Eurydice scoffs. "Everyone goes to Hadestown eventually."

"But not now," Orpheus says, and takes her hand. "Not yet."

Eurydice nods once. “I won’t, love.”

“Promise,” he insists.

Eurydice nods. “Okay, fine. I promise.”

The sinking feeling in Orpheus’s gut remains.

* * *

They make their coin last as long as they can, but food has become so scarce and the prices are climbing higher and higher. What once would have bought food for days is barely enough for a single meal.

Eurydice earns pennies sweeping the walkways of rich men’s houses. She scowls when she sees Orpheus leave late at night for the illegal mines, and she holds him all the tighter when he returns home in the morning, stumbling and coughing.

One afternoon Orpheus brings out his lyre and sits on the steps of what used to be Mr. Hermes’ cafe. He tries to remember the words to a song both finished and never written yet. When he closes his eyes, his fingers move of their own accord to a tune from another life.

When he opens his eyes again, not a soul is present on the frozen city streets. Someone has placed a single carnation inside of his lyre case, a blood-red drop of life against the stillness.

* * *

Orpheus is in the mine one evening, letting the thud of his pickaxe beat out a steady tune, when he hears his fellow workers shouting.

The only thing he remembers of the explosion is that it’s so very, very loud.

Afterwards he wills his leg to move, but the tendons won’t listen to his commands. Wait for me, Eurydice, he silently begs.

Orpheus fades in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he sees lights, and he wonders if maybe spring has come at last.

“Drink this,” Eurydice commands. He can’t move his lips, but he can meet her eyes. I’m sorry, he tries to say. 

* * *

When he comes to again, the pain is gone. Orpheus carefully flexes a finger, then his hand, and then tries sitting up.

“Eurydice?” he asks. 

No one answers him.

* * *

He’s in some sort of a hospital, and a nice one at that. Staff in pristine uniforms bring him hot broth and fresh linens every day. When he insists that there’s no way he can afford this care, the doctor smiles and just says that it’s all been taken care of.

Orpheus asks about who brought him in and is given a description of a pale young woman. The staff are courteous and pleasant, but no one has any more information. 

He gets to know the old nurse who brings his meal. Orpheus must look desperate when he begs her to check on his little cottage on the edge of town, because she agrees to go on her way home that evening. “I used to have a lover too,” she sighs. When she returns, she can only report that the cottage has been abandoned for weeks, and no one has seen anything of Eurydice.

Orpheus gets a bit stronger every day, even if he’s told that he’ll never walk quite the same with that wound in his leg. Orpheus knows he should feel thankful it’s not his hands. He’ll still have plenty of days ahead of strumming the lyre. But while music is a part of Orpheus’s very soul, it’s like his own heart has grown faded and muddled. He can’t feel any of the usual colors, let alone those that he sometimes sees in the far-off world that could be.

(When did he last see that other world? He can’t remember any more, and it’s been so, so many lifetimes).

The ticking of the clock in his hospital room becomes deafening. The visitor inside of Orpheus wants to leave this place, now, but the young man in control of his body will give no such mercy. 

His eyes have been sewn open with a strand of steel thread, and Orpheus can only watch.

Finally, one day he has real, flesh and blood visitor. As always, Mr. Hermes is no worse for his mysterious travels. There’s a spring in his step and a song under his breath, but his smile never reaches his eyes.

“My dearest boy,” he says and grips Orpheus’s hand. “I never should have left you.” 

It would be so, so easy to take that opening. To tell his old friend that it was all his fault. Wasn’t Hermes a god? What good was having an immortal take you under their wing if they couldn’t even do anything about food and shelter for two insignificant mortals?

Instead, Orpheus exhales and says, ““I told you to go.” 

And now it’s time for the cut that goes the deepest. “I take it that it wasn’t you who paid for all of this.” He gestures to the clean linens and fresh flowers.

“I wish it was,” Hermes says, and Orpheus wonders if even gods can ever experience regret. 

Orpheus’s eyes lock on the floor, as if he were to stare hard enough, deeply enough, he could stop this conversation from happening. “Where’s Eurydice?”

“A contract with Mr. Hades fetches a lot coin,” Hermes says. “Enough to pay for a fancy stay in a hospital, at least.” And then the words he’s dreaded most of all. “She called your name before she went.”

The world flickers, and then cracks underneath him.

No, he thinks. 

The pale blue of his hospital room is replaced by coarse ground. The hospital has always been uncannily quiet, but now there’s once again steady hum of water. Orpheus is suddenly, desperately thirsty. If he could just quench his thirst, he could-

_ Orpheus, you can’t keep doing this. _

Back in the hospital, Orpheus grips the bedsheets and squeezes his eyes shut. There’s smooth cotton beneath his hands. 

_ You can’t stay here forever. _

He’s holding wet, red clay beneath his fingernails. His hands once again belong to an old man. Orpheus’s eyesight is rheumy in his old age, and there’s a distinct ache in his bones. 

_ Orpheus, will you ever listen to me, you fool? _

Underneath the earth itself, there are no stars, only the pale glow of an unseen sun. If a man wanders long enough in the Underworld, he’ll find the Rivers Styx, Acheron,  Phlegethon, Cocytus, and Lethe. Some men are like Orpheus as a youth, reckless and desperate enough to try to shake the gates of Hell itself. But all men come to this place eventually, to one of the rivers that spans the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead.

One drink from the River Lethe, and a man could forget nearly anything. Enough to forget his story’s ending. Enough so to try to tell himself the tale again, as if he could change the ending this time.

A man should be able to forget. 

Orpheus can’t forget.

It doesn’t matter that Orpheus is old and should be halfway across the River Styx by now. If he’s here, then it means that he failed. And if he could never live with that while breathing, then there’s no way he can bear it as a dead man.

So Orpheus cups his wrinkled hands and gathers the River Lethe’s water. He takes another drink, and he’s young once more. 

_ Don’t- _

This time he’s in a different Hadestown. Orpheus holds a torch in one hand, a crude knife in the other. Men and women stand behind him, eyes glinting with fatalistic determination. Ahead, Mr. Hades waits at the gates, Eurydice a shadow behind him. Don’t do this, she mouths. 

Orpheus gives the order and his ragtag army charges. Hades’ raises his hand and fire begins to burn, consuming both rebels and loyal miners alike. Eurydice is looking for cover when the flames catch up to her.

Again, Orpheus is on the banks of the River Lethe.

_ How long are you going to do this for? _

“As long as it takes,” Orpheus says out loud, and drinks again.

This time he becomes a mine baron to rival Mr. Hades himself. Orpheus becomes a lord of the city and spends his days carefully weighing gold and counting coins. Eurydice is at first charmed, and then inspired by Orpheus’s music, but eventually she becomes afraid of him. So afraid that one night she slips away from fortress, and into the safety of Hadestown.

_ You have such an imagination, Orpheus, but surely even you must run out of ways to torture yourself. _

Orpheus drinks once more.

The first day, Orpheus steals out of Hermes’s cafe before Eurydice can even step foot inside. He goes straight to the mining office and signs himself over to Mr. Hades. He leaves instructions to Hermes to give any coin earned in the bargain to the waiflike girl taking shelter in his cafe. 

It doesn’t stop Eurydice from eventually joining him as a shade on the line. They’re side by side, but Orpheus has forgotten how to speak, let alone make music. Soon Eurydice forgets as well.

_ You’re utterly infuriating.  _

Again.

_ Stop it. Please. _

Orpheus is an old man who has finally come to the banks of the Underworld. Not as a would-be rescuer, but just another tired mortal whose time has come to cross over to Mr. Hades’ lands.

Mr. Hermes helped him after that horrible, unforgettable day. Persephone brought him flowers every morning that she was above ground, and sometimes literally dragged Orpheus from his bed. His heart never actually stopped, though he wished that it would.

So Orpheus kept living, kept breathing and singing and writing songs. He could never stop hating himself for it.

It’s been so, so many years. And now he’s finally here, really here, at the gates of Hadestown. It’s all over and he failed Eurydice and there’s nothing he can do to change it.

He beats his hands bloody against the rocky banks of the River Lethe. He tries to scream, but his old voice is weak and instead it comes out as pathetic gargle. Sobs wrack his whole body until his throat swells raw. If Orpheus dies just on the other side of the gates to the Underworld, what happens to him? Will his spirit be remain forever, or will it turn into the clay of the Lethe itself?

Over the sound of the water, Orpheus hears a voice. “Orpheus. I know you’re slow, but I’ve been waiting a really long time.”

He looks up, and for the first time lets his gaze drift to the other side of the Lethe.

A woman his age stands on the other side of the river, just out of reach. Her hair has gone grey, but the fire in her eyes still burns bright.

He remembers the way his lyre’s strings would sometimes brush against the edge of his case when he took it out. “Eurydice?”

She smiles. Everything about this woman is different, but this is undeniably his Eurydice.

All of the years and all of the grief threaten to topple Orpheus over. If he falls, he doesn’t know if he can get back up again. “I failed you,” he chokes instead.

“You did,” says Eurydice, but her voice is not unkind. Her gaze is steady. Her physique has grown strong with years of hard labor in Hadestown, and Eurydice looks more the warrior queen than ever.

“I could have saved you, and I didn’t.” Orpheus looks greedily at the waters of the Lethe. Surely no man should have to bear this ending. “There has to be another way, there has to-”

“But there wasn’t.” Eurydice looks down. “I was angry, Orpheus, I won’t hide that from you.”

It would be so tempting to become one with the bones of the Underworld, but Orpheus owes Eurydice this much. So he closes his eyes and listens to what comes next. “And now?”

Eurydice smiles sadly. “The past doesn’t change. But we do. At first I just threw myself into the work. I understand, my love, I wanted to forget so badly.”

“So what changed?”

Her lips curve into a small smile. “The workers started singing chants after your little stunt, you know. And Mr. Hades will always be a mighty king and drive a hard bargain, but he never quite had it in him after that.” She laughs, as if at some private joke. “Not after he had his pretty wife to drive him to distraction again. It took all of the workers coming together, and a lot of raising well, hell. But we got Hades to make a few concessions.”

Of course she did. This was Eurydice, after all. She wasn’t about to let a little thing like being consigned to the world of the dead get in her way.

Her expression turns serious again. “You were a boy, Orpheus.”

“We both were young,” he whispers. “You at least-”

“You were a mortal,” Eurydice insists. “And you failed.” 

There’s no forgiveness in her voice. But neither is there anger, not any more.

Eurydice was always the stronger one.

“And now?” 

“I’m old, Orpheus,” Eurydice says plainly. “And I worked damn hard. Trust me, no one is going to bat an eye if an old crone from the line slips away to another corner of the Underworld with her old flame. I hear the Elysian Fields are nice this time of year.”

This is it, then. This is their chance, a thousand years too late. He doesn’t know if he can take it.

“I don’t-” Orpheus starts. “I can’t…”

From across the banks, Orpheus hears something else. Pickaxes clanging in time, but also something else. Music. It’s faint, but he can make out a sound of “La, la la la…”

Eurydice smiles. “You created that, lover.”

For the first time, Orpheus is able to match her expression. “And you taught them?”

Eurydice is an old woman, but she still looks bashful. “I did.”

The river between them grows more and more narrow.

Orpheus closes his eyes, and in one firm step crosses over to the other side of the Lethe. 

The weight falls from him like lead and his spirit finally soars free of all its mortal shackles. 

He’s truly a young man again this time. He takes his lover in his arm and spins her around underneath the night sky.

Eurydice smiles against his chest. “Come home with me.”

“I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> In Greek mythology, the Lethe was one of the rivers of the Underworld. The dead drank from it to erase memories of their past existence. I obviously took a *lot* of liberties here, but I liked the idea of Orpheus using it to erase what he knew and try to recreate his past.


End file.
